Deciders of Normalcy

Boil boil toil and trouble rhymes and rhymes and how they double, strings of time and lines unwind left to wonder.

Done again and again they repeat - so normal, so formal.

Molds make dessert just right, gelatinous, once viscous but they just won't keep: the rotting, the wretched, the best kept secret of sleeping, perchance to dream.

Speaking so sonorously of the Elizabethan dream - a head full of steam.  Sing of what they days could bring.

So it sounded so long ago - those days of yore.... now it's just life.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that persons own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste... and can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.

What's different?  What's true? Whats that?  Who's who? Who is you?  Those same rhymes and rap and all that other crap? Yeah it's where what is at.  Who's that?  Is that a fact?  Cut me some slack Jack and step back.

Why on earth should it all sound the same?  Look the same?  Be so tame?  Simple things are for simple folks but this is complicated.

Dedicated and explicated is how it's eradicated. Celebrated all day each day is where it's actuated. The weird words come in and out and to fro.  

All those things that simmer right below.  You tell me this and everything you know.  But I'm the decider of normalcy for all that is me - that's what I know!

Agapanthas

The agapantha blooms are wilting again, another June here on the Central Californian shores

Up towards towards the crusts of the cerros and lomas tucked in behind the water

Rivers creep through the landscape dwindling down to inevitability and into the vast Pacific

Gravity pulls us all down to the earth eventually, for even ashes will fall after they've risen.

The water is no different: a wave crests because it will fall, a tide rises to retreat and the waterfall crushes the rocks below.

Even the mountains can only fight gravity for so long, as the water will eventually wrinkle the face like tears tugging on an old man's skin patience will eventually takes it toll

Time walks slowly, depending on perspectives, and watching the hills move at an incalculably slow rate I realize how rushed we must seem

To the flies that buzz or the scurrying mouse, time must move like lightning - and to the gods and planets we must look foolish and hurried.

This behavior seems normal and to a casual observer, at the least liche.  Shameless moments are the spine of routine and the spleen of social function;

When people take for granted their actions rather than rehearsing the excuses for their behavior.

So we do this over and over again, bound by gravity, rising and falling to the turning suns

When the light cascades through our windows the fight begins, a wrestling stance positioned against the very nature of science

Trying to move ourselves in the light against the pulling Sun and Moon, as if this were the hyperbole of ancient tales.

No, this is now, a rising fight against the morning sun to steal its energy and force this planet to meet my needs 

I want this to be only my reservoir of energy flowing into and out of the fractured landscape cut by the labor of my fathers and mothers before me

A ware waged against and amongst the selfish interests of my fellow man - lest I forget how typical my plight here is.

When the day is done, we cease the fight, if only because we are flawed and cannot fight the Earth forever.

We lay into the gravitational pull and rest as the Sun tugs on the warrior spirit of our fellow space travelers.

There she is in the morning, the wilted Agapantha.  Those purple leaves that stood so tall, tilt towards the earth

Parallel to the axis and askew to those leaves, dangling just above the earth and feeding from the Sun, the stalk of the agapantha wilts.

In the blink of an eye the stalk shoots to the sky, awake and ready to fight against the cosmic bodies pulling us round in cirlces

The purple petals, the bulbous cocoons, that erupt in sleek geographic flowers for a saloon of other planters:

Birds, bees and the squirrels that terrorize the trees above my roof, they move about in an orbit of these earthly flowers

Then, almost selfishly, they cease to function.  The stalks no longer spring above the the ground, but they fall almost ashamedly back to their genesis, as if this were not normal

But every year as the Sun stretches its light further and further out the agapantha stalk lifts it head from its emerald pillows and goes to work

Then, like an old broken horse, the stalk limps further and further closer to its master, cracked and bent the petals long since blown away, together they weather the final storms of time,

Where eventually the spine and rigor breaks and the cells have no function but to fade.

And the gardener finally comes to sweep the debris and chase the insects and remove those useless stalks so they may be composted for next spring's soil.

Never Ignorant, Getting Goals Accomplished

Rip rap flows
Inside domes
Letting go
You don't know
As if you did,
I saw you hid, kid
That's what you did
Quicksickle
Lyrical
Did I once here the word Dicksickle?
If this will
Sit inside your mind
A timed bomb
A thrill ride.
Don't stop 
As the freestyle could
Would should
Did dude
Hood wood
Fool, feel the good
That thud
Those slugs
In the forest
In the game
In jungle
All the same
Say dudes
From whence they came
Like growns up
In the project
Don't forget the steps
That were set 
Before we got to rep
Those ripped away talents
The stripped away pageants
Mowed down by sergeants
Lieutenants, generals, emperors
Ephemerel lechers
Twisted whimpers
In noose drawn embers
Like cross sawn endeavors
To trick Medger Evers
But the point does stick
In the craw that you lick
Real thick it gon' pick
And eat away at you.
That this little dance
Like some tip toe blues
That woos that woozy
Spirit back up the roof
Moonlight drowns
Where the city sounds
Sparkle right before your eyes
The ears hear so much
That the sight of light
Hits a sound wave
Across a cave
Those cavernous streets
Where the tenements cross
And the neighbors meet, greet, seat
Be discrete
A loss that costs a very real price
A time passes and gone off
At too steep a price
Like an auctioneers own take
The point that I make 
Or hope to impart
With some escape 
Before I depart
Is that I ride
On a wave
Of so many before
A slide to my grave
From the words of this whore
That I steal
I study
And reveal something
That has been said again
and before
Like rainclouds and storms
Coming and going
Like they've gone before
So little, no cunning
Just jumping ashore
To get to land
Where I can identify
Some feet in the sand
And I want to signify
I want to stand
And stand
Stand.
And my feet ruffle the cirlces
Like puddles eternal
Still time so brief
For others much briefer
And I must appreciate
What came before me here. 

An Early Morning on Planet Earth Enjoying the Rise of Gloablisation

Saturday morning soccer
From across the globe
Is literally a quiet joy.
Where the cheers of crowds,
Muted in the morning,
Are seen and hot heard
As birds chirp awake
To goals and near misses.

Racing Comets

An almost intangible exhaustion, not because the fatigue is so strong because it is so abnormal,
Like strange parasitic references to moments lost into the vortex long ago.
Numbing paranoia to numbness as if feeling is the strangest feeling at all.
The exhaustion like a freight train nightmare finally resting on the open eyelids of relief
The dwindling sanity of understanding from the kings and queens, democratic royalty and meritocratic victories
Which are what in the mind's eye?  Like beautiful reflections into the iris - they belong only to whomever possesses the flowers
The madness of a cut rose, bleeding palms and caressing rose petals - the goals of the moment to torments the senses
Yes, exhaustion.
But not a real exhaustion no.  For I can describe this.  The name.  It has one.  It may make of many words but this is tiresome.
I'm not ascended from the coal mine or descended from the coal miner
My grandfather long ago ran across the fiction lines and across obelisks of sand  - those torturous natural walls that dare someone to test their mettle
This is not the exhaustion of a woman pushed to her limits, a prenatal notion of a birthing fatigue that no man grasps.
This is not an unending love that torments my soul and titilates my friends from the reckless nature of romance.
This is just exhaustion.
I run through mummified moments of expression and tombs and tombs of individual though.
I burst through the simple victories and dwell on lonely planets or vacation dinners from the comfort of my own internets tunneling in screens and screens of more surface area.
The depths of my understanding are forgotten biological principles - where people turn cold in the night office air and air conditioned routines.
This is a weary eyed, sweaty toothed mad man and he begs for a blanket.  Kicking, Scremaing and in the tired tired light he will never be free
A seizure of seizing, frozen assets capitalized by those demonic Wastes Oftime.  They scream from each and every corner of civilization - dirty denizens hell bent.
To lie down is to let the winds swirl across the panorama of a ceiling, the bed tied to the certainties of the day and world whirling by above as it never existed.
That is the the exhaustion
A running lap of effort to track down the sun, the moon and the gods themselves while they laugh at the flailing arms and terrible form
The sprinting nature of looking for answers in all the places they won't be found -  human errors in judgement and failing to trust the nomadic love of ourselves
Looking deep inside is a proportion so twisted with self-loathing that the mind years to be distant
Racing to be on the horizon before the horizon exists, like wrestling the sun into submission and beaming its light to shine across your golden medals
Those are the races we dream of winning, the races into eternity where we think we see a light at the end
A never catching
A never up
A never here
A never there
A never never.

Natural Miracles

Eclipses are the softening of the light

Into a massive wall against the sun

Blocking out only temporarily

The light that might be shone.

People gather like they always have

Mayans somehow more ready than

The many technophilic generations to come

Standing, waiting for astronomy to be fun.

Years of science and observation

Are the bedrock of these fantastic reunions

Where humans look beyond their lives

Each moment and memory making up a collection

When everyone comes together and looks up

At the stars and galactic itches of the One

Its not so much their God they see

Its the power of all us together all at once.

The Atlantic Was Born Today

What's the rule of law

But just a bunch of words

Where the words just matter

To the people who can afford to fight

Starving people often 

Don't care to speak.  No matter,

The laws were not made for them

If not to rule them.

High pine trees, knotted thorny plants, muggy tired heat

A jungle of tired plants wilting to the sidewalk next door

Dogs used to scramble beneath the shade

Foliage hanging like apples, the sun shooting high overhead

The fire and fury of the world dampened by the soft underbrush

Where shadow wallpapers the ecology.

No, not now.  The cracked stone underfoot

Bikers and businessmen step through the shrubs

Chaparral, tumbleweeds, saguaros

Fractured bones of lost natural beauty are stunned

But was there anything to protect?  

A moment that mattered?... so to speak.

The rule of law is penned by the privileged

Is Mother Nature subject to the rule of law?

Family fights are normal.

But don't we respect our elders?

There was a time when the words of Moses were the laws set upon the land.  God was mean and his people barbaric - warring factions of men from across the known globe - trying to avoid starvation amidst cravings.  Times were hard and the bible was the law and that was how people set their calendars and solved their problems and married off their children.  That was law then until it changed.

The era of nuclear proliferation politics

Science and law fused like the Enola Gay

Words have scientific weight ordained only by the faithful.

Those who are believed will always rest

Upon the tops of totems

We straddle a world that knows the debt of life

With a world that assumes life was owed to them

There are no words to fuse the souls

The fission in this medieval time is a scientific impossibility

Great bounties of energy are sacrificed

So the laws can change - arbitrary rules.

Bare bones schools where fusion isn't even in the textbooks

Skeletons reminding us of the insignificance of literacy

Surgically removed hospitals on life support 

Filaments flickering in bloodless operating rooms

Churches with their bibles in the fire, congregations still cold

Entire pews filled with children running off

To the city.

Please remember this:

These buildings did not build themselves!

These corners and constructions are not accidental.

Who willed the industrialization of society?

If anything it willed me

To learn its power, to understand its language

Where the force to turn emotion in to action

Is through the language of the damned.

And here we are.

So convenient the rulers can forget the laws they made

So easy the laws they made were made for them

There was a time when the laws allowed men

To package one another like an Amazon delivery

With a bulk rate just as if you were a Prime Subscriber.

Man has been waiting for drone technology for sometime.

... Oh those city nights!  Light and sound awash with the benefit of privilege.

Across the middle passage men lost their lives

Man's soul overboard and the sharks victoriously feasting 

At the bloody seafood buffet without a care in the world.

Nature cares not what the men high in buildings

Decide what's best for them and their children.

Yet the do it anyway -  footmen of all dimensions take note 

The inevitable whimpers of their masters.

Out of spite, trampling out the vintage.

Having loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible, swift sword

Never knowing really wrote His words...

...So many angry men.

They are all seem so angry - and why?

Why is a person angry?

What makes the baby cry?

A mother always offers of herself first

To calm a hungry baby

So why is a person angry?

Do we change so much?

Are the needs so different?

What makes a person angry?

Feed the belly and let the mind rest...

Feed the belly again and let the mind wander

Feed the belly again and again and again...

Then might be the time to ask those questions

Mornings wind through the hills and cows are already at work

A strange land of farm hiding from suburbia.

Man tries so hard to blend in like the tall referee at midget wrestling

Such a subtlety only man can define.

Bedtime

I don't know what I want to say tonight.
I thought about it all day and I've run out thoughts
There was a point at my desk
When I smoked so much medicine the screen was blurry.
Thank god it was Friday (I did that).
I would hate to take myself too seriously.

Haikus for an Ethnocentrist

Boy, its a damn shame
All this yelling' and cussin'
Cuz somebody's black

Thought we moved past it
The hate eatin up our souls
But it just don' die

Makes you angry, sad
Them white folks just so angry
Crying like a child

Not too much to do
When them chillun' is yellin' - 
Beat 'em or feed 'em.

Beat them children
They'll just learnt to hit you back.
Makin' them scars worse

Feed and love that child
They'll learn to do it right back
For all their children

Hate yells like hunger
Like babes with empty tummies
It sounds so awful.

How Long Should I Keep Walking?

The dirt clods muck up the treads of my boots
The dust makes circles around the the dog
The trail turns and loops to make for a nice distance.
And I count the steps until I finish.

The trees loop down and hug the trail
The leaves clog the stream where the trickle is quiet
The bugs swarm about, yes they swarm 
And the steps continue until I finish.

The marks on the road are from earlier
The arrows show how someone else got back
The shadows keep the air calm and cool
And the steps are the steps until I finish.

The other travelers are just locals
The other dogs on the trail just want a quick sniff
The meandering passers just move to the right
And the steps are my steps until I finish.

The world moves when we wish it still
The gods keep to themselves, just like the raccoons
The seasons change the trail
And the steps are just steps even after they finish.

Conmen

Tired and rested waking up slowly of Nightmare saucers of plate filling heads decapitated from chests as if art      making know it alls could make man into art.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that mans own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.

A Glance Out the Window

There are chips
In the paint
That I can ignore.
No one else
Seems to really care.
So, I also
Try to not really care.

The Wolves are Out

The Wolves are out
The Wolves are out
The Boy is not crying tonight
A heap of shrunken lives
Upon the hilltop
Where the boy is silent

The Wolves are out
That's what they tell you
When they want you inside
But I swear they're out -
At least look out the window

The wolves are out
I want to tell the whole world
But my crying will sound
Like silence from the dew
On the morning field after the battle

The wolves are out
The carcasses are almost
As interesting as the rest of us
But tip toe and be concerned
The are hungry, always hungry

The wolves are out
They can't tell a him from a whim
Snarling from hunger and cold
Snarling at anything that might taste
Good, rotting slowly down their throats

The wolves are out and they're coming for you
They don't eat their kind
That's what one learns
If you're out on the streets
Looking across the street to a petting zoo
They're either coming for you
Or you're one of them too.

Trying to Count Days

My dog sleeps deeply

Upon my bed. He rests easy 

Despite the troubles.

He's across the bed,

Stretched thin and tight, his mind is 

Peaceful in the night.

I wish that I could 

Always find such easy sleep.  

That sleep must exist.

... Movie about space 

Travel as dreamy as sleep?

My dog's still sleeping.

Space, earth, sleeping pup:

My bed and dreams in between -

Adore the moments.

I Was Promised Some Rhyme

So I set out to string
Together some words
A few rings 
Of some things
With some splurge 
Of a Surge
To the limerick
On the tongue making tricks
That makes you think 
That a stick
That is stuck
Or is struck
Will stink 
Or shrink
And won't amount to much.

...You run off some words
A little language here
It sounds ok -
Neither here nor there 
But things flicker and move
For each syntax and sound
And each word that soothes
Is music calming us down.

You think a silly wink or a quick witted line
Can make her yours, make money, save time
And you listen to try and copy the winds
Those dying at your doorstep ashamed of your sins
You beg that the meaning could touch your ears
With no trust and no faith there's nothing to hear.
Make no mistake I spend little time on the facts
I work quickly to make these ditties dance
Which I find more important than citing the scholars
I'd rather play and be merry than focused on dollars
These little phrases spinning the gears in my head
Should I paralyze those free spinning dreams instead?

A dancer in flight has control as she lands
These things I do are similarly planned
But its not really important that each word
Land on the syntax as planned
I'd rather just move the air about and watch,
Not worry as to what's planned.
Just keep repeating the disparate notions
Aloft in my head is all that's planned.
To make those plans and keep those plans,
Is that's all that's planned?
I wanted dancing, drinking and singing with a band
If they aren't, well I'd rather those things were planned.

Mammals

I woke up on the wheel today-
The ride isn't so bad some days.
Sometimes, on a Monday morning
I get up and eat a piece of cheese;
Maybe I grab some crumbs in the kitchen.
I don't get too full, I save that for later
Because after I get to work
I have to worry about other things.
Sometimes I get scattered;
People ask me lots of things
At different times - I lose track.
Luckily they remember to feed me -
In the middle of the day the food is put out;
We all come to same place;
We nudge and bump each other -
As we fill plates of food and go back
Where the wheel needs spinning.
The afternoon is spent finishing
All the wheel spins that need spinning.
Eventually I get tired,
Everyone else gets tired of their wheels
At around the same time everyday,
Then we all get in our cars and drive home
To get up and do it again the next day.

It ok

Its ok 
to take it easy 
now and again.  I have to 
remind myself of that. That
I have to remind my self frequently, well...

Sometimes I get upset about the having to remind myself repeatedly.

And then I have to remind myself
That I shouldn't get upset
About taking it easy.

This is another Facebook chronicle -

There is no reason to leave it alone
(Like some twisted dance,
A place that I land and explain
In order
To really tell you
What I want to 
Really tell you);

In the telling, 
I plan to explain
What I plan to tell you.
Yes, I need to be a centerpiece
Here in this conversation.

I get lost in the sampling tones
I can't forget the Lost 
And the written tones - 
The Forgotten Spills 
Over waterfall Helicopters - 
That landmass, the Intriguing Ivy 
Laugh stands in to the Yeti abyss

What are the words 
That land in to foggy myths;
Times Once Spun 
To the lucky ones
Across dancing lands:
Nymphs could claim those;
Fortresses, civilizations, legacies: theirs.

Now we vote, lost upon the ill 
Gotten characterizations 
Those socially exuberant
Media-twisted gags and coughs - 
Like the ones that standup 
Routines across the face of the skeptic.

To not believe in the fantasy language: 
you poor unimaginative light... 
And a toast to the awkward force!
Carve the mind into the bended sphere!!!

You know the lost hemisphere
The get around here
The rhyme cuz I spent time there
As if that wasn't fair
The be here
To be there
Don't tell me this doesn't play where you are.
Cuz we are here.

Awash

An apology lost, twisting in wretched metal
Laughs cackling in the distance
Like sirens they ring hurricane poetry
Curious faces stare into
An abyss funnels down pipes
Clouds stream the colors of the universe
Physics seizes in the eyes of the frame
Anonymous statues kick the tires
Electric car maps drive themselves to the party
The rest of us walk slowly into the distance
Light flickers like a broken screen
The frowns explain the poor taste in humor.

Hapa

All around the room

As if there was a right answer

Again against a wall of uncertaintly

It gets old doesnt it?

Or what is fatigue'a longing ending?

Is that tiresome?

Or what really bores the mind?

Lost in a syntax of a carved stone cell?

Lost in the stones' throws of escape?

Hugging the sand will not be enough

Where green fountains of vegetation

Fall down the mountains like the waterfalls

A person can internalize the moment:

Bird screeching chickens Cockadoodle do

A sensation of being immersed

Water tea kettles to a whistle

The body seethes a certain stress and burns the heavenly oil of rest

But to turn the while island to a bridge of championship?

Yes, a bridge to champions.

So much gone to the wind and seas

Massacres or legacies turn on the same swipes

But to touch the whole of the island-

To touch it at all and breathe the tastes of generations of feelings

There is no solution.

Rest easy in the messing ingredients of eternity

For what is untouchable and untastable

Is certainly touched in everything that we can taste.